"That's it," says he, grave-like. "Easy to see she wasn't speaking truth to her father nor me; and folks say she was wonderful taken with him. Now if so be she gave him the watch, he didn't steal it, and yet maybe he's got it! More than that I don't say—only I've got to find out where the watch is; and the quieter it's done, the better pleased Mr. Phrynne'll be." Well, that wasn't all that passed, but by this time Mary pretty well understood how things were. The worst of the matter was that she couldn't help fearing the policeman was in the right. Putting two and two together, it seemed likely. You see, she'd no manner of security about Walter. She might cry out in hot defence of him: "He never would! He never could!" but to say the same words in quiet certainty was another matter. After a while it was settled that Mary should have a talk with her brother the same evening, and the policeman would call again later. It showed his trust in Mary, that he was willing to wait. She told him she knew she had more power over Walter than anybody else; and she thought she could bring him to confess. She promised for Walter that he should be there, when the policeman called. "Well, I'll risk it," said he at last. "I'll risk it. Don't seem to me there's been downright dishonesty: though there's been a lot of deceiving. Anyhow, I've got to get to the bottom of the matter. And the quieter it's done the better; only mind you, Mr. Phrynne is bent on getting back the watch." Then the policeman went away, and Mary knelt down just where she was, all alone, to pray to be made to say the right words. It must have been a sorrowful hour that she passed, waiting for her brother; only she had the comfort of praying. Walter had his tea when he came back, and he seemed uncommon lively, as he'd been the past few days. Mary couldn't eat nor talk through the meal, but Walter did plenty of both. "What's the matter?" says he at last. "You look dumpish." Mary had not made up her mind when nor how to speak; but in a moment she resolved not to put it off. "Walter!" says she, looking at him, "why didn't you tell me you had been to Claxton the day I came home?" Walter went as red as fire. "So Kitty's let that out, has she?" said he. "The little ass!" Well, you can suppose I didn't like to be called an "ass," even by Walter. Mary told it out quietly, telling the story. She did not at once say that he was mistaken. "Why should Kitty keep your going there a secret?" said she. "Why, of course—because—oh, only because—well, of course she needn't!" said he, floundering. "Wouldn't it be natural she should speak after she'd seen you?" says Mary. "Natural!" says he; and he muttered again, "The little ass!" "Did you see Kitty alone, or all of them together?" Mary asked. "Only Kitty!" says he sulkily. "It wasn't anybody else's concern." "Then that was the business you went after," Mary said. "I don't see why you should make such a mystery of it," says she.